


Pulse Of My Heart

by stewardess



Series: Already Crazy [9]
Category: Boondock Saints (1999), Bravo Two Zero (1999)
Genre: Crossover, Multi, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-07
Updated: 2004-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/pseuds/stewardess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor and Murphy, age eighteen, want to be in the IRA like their Da. Andy MacNeil, who looks suspiciously like Andy McNab in <i>Bravo Two Zero</i>, has other plans for the twins. Set in the late 1980s, when SAS agent Andy McNab was undercover in Northern Ireland for two years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They think we're the same person!" Murphy shouted.

Murphy read again the letter from Harvard to Connor Murphy MacManus, congratulating him on his $22,000 a year in financial aid. There was a similar letter from Princeton granting $21,000 a year to Murphy Connor MacManus.

"Calm the fuck down!" Connor said. He put his hands on Murphy's shoulders. "Of course they fucken do! We took the same courses, have the same grades. Have the same fucken birth date! We'll straighten it out."

"Straighten it out at Harvard, then," Murphy said. "Princeton makes you work nine hours a week. Probably in the fucken library, shelving books."

"If we can't get it through their heads, you can go to Harvard, and I'll go to Princeton."

Murphy narrowed his eyes skeptically. "How far apart are they?"

"They're both in New England. It couldn't be more than—fifty miles?"

Murphy pulled out an atlas. "It's two hundred and fifty!" He slammed the atlas shut. "We'll go to university in Dublin."

"You go to Harvard, and I'll move there with you. The financial aid's short, so I'll get a job." Connor looked smug about his plan.

"_I'll_ work," Murphy said.

"I thought of it," Connor said, thumping his chest with his fist.

"_Connor_ Murphy. They put your name first. It has to be you."

"Then go to Princeton, and I'll get a job there instead."

"Fuck that."

"You listen to me, Murphy," Connor said. His face turned red, and the veins on his temples stood out.

Murphy felt his own blood throb. "It won't work, ya fucken retard." Connor would see the flaw in the plan eventually: if one of them worked and one of them went to school, they would be apart from each other at least eight hours a day.

Connor grabbed the hair on the back of Murphy's head. "Fuck it. There's no need to worry yet. We've got the whole summer ahead of us."

"Fucken fine," Murphy said, leaning his head back to reduce the tension on his hair. Put him at just the right angle for a kiss.

* * *

Murphy wasn't serious about going to university in Dublin, because they needed to get as far away as possible from Ma—not forever, but for a good, long time.

She was driving them insane. The older they got, the more she drank. They had been taking care of almost everything since they were ten; in the last couple of years, they had been taking care of everything, including her.

They even had to do their studying elsewhere, because at any time the house could fill up with drunken lunatics. Trying to get through university under those conditions would be impossible.

They needed their own place, as of yesterday. If they went north again this summer, they'd get a much needed break from Ma and maybe a chance to live by themselves. That was all Murphy wanted out of it; Connor wanted more.

Connor wanted to become an Active Service Volunteer in the IRA.

Murphy had been against it until Connor told him his theory: Their Da might still be in Northern Ireland, still with the Provos, the Provisional IRA. He could have had facial surgery to change his appearance—other IRA men had done it.

It was attractive to imagine their Da as near as the Six Counties. But some part of Murphy couldn't believe it. Surely they would have had some hint of him, when they were in Belfast, going from pub to pub. There had been a lot of drinking going on, and many of the men they had met claimed to have known their Da.

Their time with Andy MacNeil had convinced Murphy that being in the IRA wouldn't be any better than being in school; someone else would still be telling them what to do. And he didn't think he had it in him to kill someone, except in self defense.

There was only one situation in which he was sure he'd resort to violence, and that was if Connor was threatened.

They were old enough to go to pubs, to get drunk, and somehow that meant they were brawling every Saturday night. Connor's smart mouth never failed to get them into trouble.

Connor didn't look that impressive. His build was slender, and his face was… well, pretty. The men he insulted thought he'd be easy to stomp into the ground.

But Connor had picked up all of Andy's training the summer before, and he was lightning fast, so the men always ended up with their faces acquainted with the tarmac, even without Murphy's help.

With Andy's expert instruction, Murphy had excelled in marksmanship, but he had resolved never to touch a gun again. He had liked the feel of one in his hand too much.

He knew Connor too well to try to talk him out of his scheme, however. They'd go north and try to find their Da, if they could do so without endangering him. Afterward, Connor _might_ put it out of his mind.

Murphy managed to get one concession from Connor: if they hadn't found their Da by the end of summer, they'd stop looking for him and attend university as planned.

It wasn't just the hope of seeing their Da that motivated them. Since they were young boys, they had considered joining the IRA.

The Protestant paramilitary groups were the main reason Murphy felt compelled to join. The paras gunned down people for crossing themselves when passing a Catholic church. They went after unarmed citizens, even nuns and priests! Once Murphy had a gun, he'd…

Aw, fuck. It was back to the guns again. But he wasn't volunteering with Connor because the IRA would give him a gun. That wasn't it at all. It was about justice.

_Justice through guns._

* * *

That night, after they shed their clothes for sleep, Connor didn't lie down. He sat up on his bed so they could continue to discuss their course of action.

Connor thought they should head straight to Belfast and hunt Andy down. They didn't know if Andy was in the IRA or not, but he was definitely connected.

"He has to help us, Murph," Connor said confidently. "It's not going to be easy to join the Provos—I've heard they take only one out of every hundred volunteers—but Andy knows everyone."

"Andy won't help us unless he thinks he can get something out of it," Murphy said.

"You're forgetting something, Murph. We know where Andy's weapons dump is."

Connor had a fucking point there.

Last summer, Andy had shown them where the weapons dump was concealed on their cousins' farm. Andy had done it to gain their trust, then he had used Connor and Murphy to ingratiate himself with the IRA and make several weapons deals. The MacManus twins, as everyone had called them, had opened doors for Andy, because their Da had been a famous Provo.

"Now you're getting it," Connor said. "We've got him by the balls."

_Hopefully literally_, Murphy thought.

"Maybe we should go to Ryan's and Rachel's first, see if we can trace Andy from there," Murphy suggested. He wanted to see their cousins again, anyway.

Connor shook his head. "Andy never went back to his cottage."

Murphy grinned, remembering. "The first night we stayed at Andy's, when you had that black eye I gave ya. Remember what you said?"

"About Leanne, and Andy? Fuck! You said he was queer, and I didn't believe it."

"Not that. You said if I had been a girl… and then you didn't finish." Murphy grinned wider as a flush spread over Connor's face, neck, even his chest. He moved to Connor's bed, pushed Connor flat, and lay on top of him.

"Don't remember what I was going to say. It was a fucken year ago!" Connor made the denial feebly.

"Let me guess. You would have fucked me anyway." Murphy hid his disappointment when Connor looked relieved; it meant he had guessed wrong.

"Aye," Connor said, smirking. He tried to push Murphy off. Murphy pressed hard with his hips until Connor made room for him between his legs.

"I can't say the same," Murphy teased. "If _you_ had been a girl…"

The blood rushed to Connor's face again.

"If you were a girl, would you _let_ me fuck you?" Murphy said. His grin was going to crack his face.

"There's no point to this conversation," Connor said, squirming under him.

"You'd be a pretty girl," Murphy said. He could feel legions of his brain cells committing suicide at the thought.

"Jaysus, Murph! I'd be no fucken use as a girl. Especially to you. What girls do you know, anyway?"

Murphy grabbed Connor's wrists and spread his arms apart, holding them down. "I'd _want_ to fuck you."

"And who taught you everything you know about girls?" Connor said. His voice was speeding up, moving into blarney mode. "_Me_, that's who. You'd be worse off if I wasn't your brother. Who'd fucken teach you then?"

"My sister." Murphy licked his lips. "She'd teach me."

Connor stared at him, his mental sails momentarily left flapping. Murphy grinned slyly; he had him. And now he had to have some part of Connor in his mouth. Connor's nipples were closest.

Connor thrashed hard, but it wasn't the kind of thrashing that could dislodge him. Murphy laughed and sucked harder.

"Ow!" Connor pushed Murphy's mouth away from his chest. "You fucken bit me! Girls don't like that rough shite."

"I could go softer," Murphy said. He licked the reddened skin on Connor's chest to soothe it.

"You couldn't," Connor said.

"Could," Murphy said.

"Couldn't," Connor said.

Murphy slugged him. "Fucken could!"

Connor howled with triumphant laughter. "That's what I'm saying, Murph! You'd punch your own fucken sister!"

"I'm fucken sorry, all right?" Murphy said. He was still lying on top of Connor, in spite of all their flailing.

Murphy supported himself on his elbows and knees and ran one fingertip slowly over Connor's mouth. Connor's lips were as soft and full as a girl's. His eyelashes were as dark and as long. His hair shone like silk where it fell over his face. Connor wouldn't be pretty, he'd be beautiful. He _was_ beautiful.

Abruptly, he realized Connor was observing him just as closely. His face burning at being caught looking, he leaned down to kiss Connor hard, then changed his mind at the last second and slowly rubbed their lips together instead. After a moment, he realized Connor was breathing hard, and, even better, had shut up.

"I'd touch you so soft," Murphy whispered. _I'd say soft words. Maybe even 'I love you.'_ No, he couldn't ever say it. It was like saying the ocean was wet. Too much of a fucking understatement. Besides, Connor would laugh at him.

"Couldn't." Connor sighed quietly when Murphy slid fingertips slowly over his nipples.

"Slow and soft, until you said yes." Murphy's voice cracked with sudden urgency. He kissed Connor, trying to go easy, then grabbed Connor's legs, bending them at the knee. He reached under a pillow, where he had stashed the lube.

"At first, you wouldn't want to, cause it's _wrong_," Murphy whispered. Connor twitched when the cold lube touched him. "But then you couldn't help yourself. You'd get so wet." He moved two fingers in and out of Connor's arse slowly.

"Shut up, you sick bastard," Connor groaned. "I'm not your fucken sister."

Murphy pulled his fingers out, pushed the head of his cock against Connor's arsehole, and clenched his jaw. The initial slide in would make him come if he wasn't careful.

"So fucken wet," Murphy croaked. He was halfway in. Connor imagining himself a girl getting fucked was making him lose it. Then the whole of Connor's fantasy hit him.

"It wouldn't fucken matter if I went slow." Murphy wailed, Connor was gripping his cock so tight. "Cause if you were a girl, you couldn't fucken fight me!"

He used his entire body to thrust into Connor. When he pulled out nearly all the way, Connor's fingers dug hard into his shoulders. When he buried his cock again in Connor's tight, slick ass, Connor released his shoulders and let out a loud cry, louder than Murphy had ever heard him make. Then a second later, as he started pulling out, Connor's fingers clamped again onto his shoulders. Over and over, with every thrust, Connor's nails digging into his back told him not to waste a single fucking second before driving back in.

They were locked together, mouth to mouth, cock to arse, chest to chest, Connor's arms and legs around him. They couldn't get any closer, but Murphy wanted to.

"Murph. Gonna fucken come."

Murphy wasn't even touching Connor's cock. Sure, his belly was rubbing against it every third or fourth stroke. He was reluctant to let go of Connor to fist his cock, because everything felt perfect. It couldn't feel any better.

Before Murphy made a decision, Connor's body arched and his head reared back as all of him heaved up off the bed. Murphy hung onto Connor by the waist so he wouldn't slide out. Connor's come, warm and wet, hit his belly.

When Connor went limp under him, he moved Connor back into his original position, bending his legs, thrusting harder and deeper than he ever had. Connor took it all.

Murphy lost himself. Found himself later with his head on Connor's chest, Connor's legs still wrapped around his hips.

He rolled off to let Connor dry them with a sheet. Afterwards, he rested his fingertips on Connor's face, following the outlines of his brows, nose, and chin. Connor's blue eyes were peaceful, his face saintly in its calm.

Murphy still wanted to say the soft words. Just not _I love you_.

"I need you," Murphy said instead.

It was like being stabbed, because saying it was admitting there could be a hellish universe in which he _didn't_ need Connor. He wrapped his arms around his twin and held on tight. His chest heaved dangerously, as if he were going to cry.

"Myself as well," Connor said. His fingers slid quickly and lightly over Murphy's hair and down his neck.

Murphy's eyes closed, lulled by Connor's touch. Someday he'd know how to say it, with words that didn't hurt so much.

* * *

It took them only one day to hitchhike to Belfast. When they arrived, they checked into a youth hostel and cleaned up, then went out to hit the pubs.

At every pub they visited, someone stood them drinks. When they tried to get a round, they were told loudly, "Your money's no good here!" Many of the men looked familiar, but they didn't know any of their names.

Connor wasn't concerned. "Andy will hear we're in town. You can count on it."

They stumbled back to the youth hostel sometime in the early hours. They had paid extra for a private room with two single beds, instead of staying in the dormitory.

_We may never stay a night at home again_, Murphy thought, and felt strange. He touched his rosary and looked at Connor. Connor shook his head. They would keep the rosaries on. The hostel was not even a temporary home, only a place to lay their heads.

* * *

The next day, in each of the three pubs they visited, Connor said casually to anyone who would listen that they were looking for Andy MacNeil. Each time, the response was a noncommittal, "Grand."

By the third day, they were losing patience. They made their way to a club off of Falls Road, a place well known as a gathering spot for Provos, yet no one discussed anything with them but the weather and the health of their relations.

"Let's ask someone to take us to Andy," Murphy said in the restrained shout that passed for a whisper in the clamorous room.

Connor stared into his pint, his third or fourth. "This is botherin' me, Murph. I'm fearin' what became of the man."

Andy could even be dead. His last known buyer, the man with the shiny pink head, had been killed in Armagh by the SAS, the British Special Air Service. Murdered, some said, along with seven other IRA men.

Although they had met the man, he and Connor hadn't learned his name until the massacre was reported in the newspapers, complete with photos. From the news stories, they learned he had been a quartermaster for the IRA in county Tyrone, where their cousins' farm and Andy's weapons dump were located.

Was that tragedy behind their cold reception? Had their association with Andy tainted them in some fashion? Had Andy burned the IRA in a weapons deal?

Murphy tried to figure it out, but he'd had three pints of beer and was feeling less than sharp. Instead, he threw his arms around the first man with a familiar face.

"It's grand to see you again!" Murphy shouted. He pulled the man over to their table. "You know who we are?"

The man nodded. "The MacManus twins."

"We didn't come to Belfast for free drinks. We want to see Andy MacNeil."

"He's not here tonight," the man said. Murphy could have kissed him.

"Then tell him to get his arse here, and quick," Connor said. "Tell him we insist on it."

Murphy let the man go and watched him disappear into the crowd. Ten minutes later, the man returned and gestured for them to follow him toward the rear of the club.

Murphy could guess which table they were headed for; the younger Provos were easy to spot. They were all lean and fit and watchful. This one, sitting alone at his table, was older than most, over thirty, and looked as hard as stone. His hair was dark brown, nearly black. It was long enough to show a curl.

"Sorry, lads," the man said. "Andy's not here. Haven't seen him for months. Where are ya staying? I'm sure we can find ya something better."

"Fuck you and your favors," Connor said.

It always gave Murphy the shivers when Connor abruptly shifted from jovial drunkenness to violent sobriety.

The man was not riled. "What would you be wantin' with Andy?"

"My brother and I want to volunteer," Connor said.

"The Republicans don't take volunteers under twenty anymore. And Andy said not to take you, anyway."

"Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck did Andy say to you?" Connor's face had gone dark red.

The man grinned. "I'm Dinger. Ask Andy yourself."

Andy sat down at the table. He had the same dangerous smile, but everything else about him had changed. His hair was bleached lighter, and it was in a football player's haircut, short on top, long on the sides. He looked as if he hadn't washed himself thoroughly in days, and his clothing was no better. He had lost at least a stone, but it made him look stronger, not weaker, his muscles more clearly defined.

Murphy grinned back at him, even though moments before he had wanted to kick Andy's arse for saying shite about them to the Provos.

Andy sat down and took out a packet of cigarettes. By the time he had one between his lips, Dinger was lighting it for him. Andy didn't even look at him, as if Dinger had been lighting his cigarettes since the day he was born.

"Now's the time for drinking, not talking," Andy said. "Be here at noon tomorrow."

Before they could protest, Andy disappeared into the crowd, closely followed by Dinger.

* * *

At noon the next day, Dinger led them to a cellar below the club, full of musty crates and empty beer kegs. Andy was leaning against a stone wall, looking no cleaner than he had the day before.

"I'd forgotten how fucken young you two are. Not weaned off your ma's teats yet, are ya?"

"What did you tell the Provos, Andy?" Connor demanded.

"I told 'em you'd fail training," Andy said.

"But you already trained us," Murphy said. "You said we were _fucken excellent_."

"That was just weapons and a bit of strategy. It's anti-interrogation you'd fail."

Connor looked at Murphy, and Murphy read the look. _Let's beat the fucker senseless._ It didn't matter that they had no chance of success, particularly with Dinger there to back Andy up. Dinger's build made Andy look slight.

"Not many get through it," Andy said. His smile was gone. "Thirty more minutes, and I wouldn't have."

"If you put us through it yourself, would that satisfy you?" Murphy said. "If we fail, we'll not trouble you again." He glanced at Connor, who nodded in agreement.

"I'd like nothing better," Andy said. His smile returned and went from dangerous to devilish. "Meet me out back in twenty minutes. Look for a cattle truck."

"Our bags are at the hostel," Connor said.

"I'll fetch 'em for ya later," Dinger said. "You won't be needing them for a bit."

* * *

The cattle truck had high wooden sides and a roof made of fibreglass. Dinger got out of the cab and opened the back.

Murphy prepared himself for the musky smell of cow shit, but smelled only hay. After he and Connor climbed on top of the clean straw inside, he saw that the interior was reinforced with half inch steel plates. Obviously this cattle truck wasn't used for cows.

Dinger shut the doors, locking them in, and the truck rattled off.

Murphy wondered idly where they were going. He expected Andy was taking them out of the Six Counties, back to the Republic of Ireland. If so, the slow moving truck would take at least two hours to get there. Good time for a nap.

Before he dozed off, the truck came to a halt. The rear doors opened and Andy and Dinger climbed in with them.

Murphy fought back a yell as a rough canvas bag was pulled down over his head and shoulders. His hands were bound behind his back with plasticuffs, and he was dumped on the straw like a sack of potatoes. But he felt warmth next to him, and knew it was Connor. His racing heart slowed to normal.

He couldn't stop from kicking when he felt hands groping his neck, pulling the rosary off over his head.

"Sorry, lads," Andy said. "Her majesty would take them from you as well. I'll keep them safe."

Murphy stopped kicking.

"You'll be held three to seven days," Andy said. "Say nothing, sign nothing, see nothing, hear nothing. Starting now."

* * *

The truck lurched on endlessly, much longer than two hours. Judging from the smell, they halted once for petrol.

Finally, the accursed vehicle stopped, and the doors creaked open. Hands hauled Murphy out and stood him on his feet. Panic squeezed him breathless until he felt Connor against his side. He was pushed forward, nearly knocked off balance as he tried to walk fast enough to please his captors.

Judging by the still, warm air, they were indoors, in a garage perhaps. They went down a flight of stairs, the air turning musty and unpleasant.

Murphy heard the clang of metal against metal, then the plasticuffs were cut off. Instead of rubbing his raw and stinging wrists, he reached out until he felt Connor's hands touching his own.

The contact lasted only seconds. A man placed Murphy's hands on a wall, then he yanked Murphy's hips back until he was leaning, supported by his outstretched arms, resting only on his fingertips.

Murphy turned his head until he heard Connor's breathing no more than six feet away. He breathed slowly, evenly, mimicking Connor.

He had needed to relieve himself in the lorry, but had held it in, not wanting to foul the place they lay in. Now his need was desperate. He heard Connor exhale with relief, and smelled urine. Murphy grinned and pissed his pants.

* * *

Murphy's arms, shoulders, and neck ached. He didn't know how long they had been leaning against the wall. It might have been one hour, or ten. He tried flexing his muscles, but they burned in agony if he moved even half an inch. He tried anyway and grunted softly.

"Murph? You all right?" Connor said.

He would not make a sound again; he must not do anything to make Connor worry about him.

* * *

He and Connor had read accounts by political prisoners, so Murphy had an idea of what they were in for. If you were in the IRA, you could expect to be picked up regularly. Without even charging you with anything, the Crown could hold you for seven days. During those seven days, you were worked over by the best.

One fucking week: body and mind should be able to put up with anything for such a short period of time. If you stayed silent, they couldn't do anything to you. If you talked, you faced years in prison. How was it that anyone talked? And yet many did.

When Andy had said he and Connor wouldn't make it through this phase of training, it was the same as saying they would betray their comrades. They should have given him a beating right then and there, Dinger be damned.

What Murphy had not anticipated was that anti-interrogation training would be so close to the real thing. Even though he knew it was staged, it didn't matter: the simplest things were wrecking him. Lack of sleep. Lack of food. Having his clothes taken away, being left cold and naked.

Murphy no longer knew what day it was. Had two days passed? Five? Was it day, or night? There was no routine to base a guess on. He knew that the periods of sleep they were allowed were short, perhaps two to three hours. Just enough to prevent total collapse. Same with the food. They got potatoes, bread, and sometimes a bit of bacon. It was about a third of what they needed.

He knew how Connor was faring; they were in the same cell. Although they couldn't touch, and of course they couldn't talk, he could still smell Connor, hear Connor. Even when he couldn't see him, which was most of the time, he knew Connor was there.

At the moment, Murphy was standing, holding his arms up parallel to the floor. Half an hour of it was enough to cause excruciating pain, and he'd been doing it for at least two hours. Standing blind with his head covered was disorienting in the extreme. Every few minutes, he grew dizzy and nearly fell to the ground. If he did fall, a guard would beat him.

He was naked except for the cloth bag covering his head. He could hear Connor being taken out of the cell, away from him. It had happened several times now. Connor was off for questioning; Murphy had gone through the same.

The questions were as real as the rest of it. _Where's Andy's weapons dump? What'd you see in it? How long have you known him? Who have you seen him with? What were you doing in Belfast last year? Have you heard from your Da? Where is he?_

Why didn't he just answer the questions, tell them he wanted to quit, that he'd had enough?

Because he could not fail Connor. As long as Connor held out, he would. If he failed, then they both failed. And if they failed, they would never see their Da.

But most of all, sheer pig-headedness kept him silent. He hated his unseen and unknown captors with a passion. When he slipped into daydreams of killing them, it made him smile.

He hadn't heard or seen Andy or Dinger since they had been dumped into this hell. That none of what was happening was real didn't matter anymore. He'd never do what _they_ wanted, no matter how much they beat him and starved him.

He heard a shrill sound in the hall. A moment later, his cell was ringing with noise. It was a crowd of women come to heckle him. Their topic was his body. How ugly it was. How woefully thin and unimpressive. How no woman would ever want to touch him.

It wasn't entirely unexpected. He'd heard that the Brits used this interrogation technique.

At first the insults didn't hit any mark. But then, as the women observed him, they took better aim. They made fun of his scanty body hair, calling him a fish, and of his cock, shriveled by cold and exhaustion.

He was still holding his arms up. The pain was so intense he was sweating and trembling. That led to more comments.

It went on and on. When they finally left, he let his arms drop and he fell to the floor. He didn't care if they beat him for it; his body had to be horizontal, even if it was only for seconds.

It was. He was hauled to his feet and drenched with cold water. That was all right. He needed the bath. Then, to his surprise, he was allowed to lie down again on the cold, wet floor. Sleep was swallowing him whole.

But sleep was not to be. An unseen man outside his cell began to talk. His voice was soft, yet his words rang in Murphy's ears like a scream.

The man whispered that if Murphy stayed mum, he would kill everyone Murphy knew, one by one. Ma. Rachel, Ryan, and their baby son. Leanne. Father Cagnini. Connor.

The man did not leave the threats vague, but detailed exactly how he would get at them. Lethal tampering with Father Cagnini's medication. A bomb in Rachel's Land Rover, the effects of which he described in loving detail. A single shot to the back of Ma's head as she left _The Anvil_, her favorite pub. And for Connor…

Murphy had read of a technique some prisoners used, visualizing something pure and untouched. It might be a flower, or a tree, or a much loved place. Murphy had thought the idea ridiculous, but now he grasped at it. If he listened to the man any longer, he would lose his reason.

No flowers for him, however. He imagined the Blessed Virgin, as Connor had described her.

Her mantle was a rich, heavenly blue, and a silvery gleam surrounded her. She walked up to him, her step in cadence with the beating of his heart, and lay her hand on his chest, saying, "I shall show you the way to God."

Murphy wanted to thank her, but he only stared. She looked back at him with Connor's eyes.

His exhaustion vanished as the vision of the blue-eyed Virgin filled his mind, taking him away with her, out of the cell.

* * *

Murphy was pulled up off the floor. Still naked, he was shoved down chill corridors, then pushed against a chair. He sat on the cold metal seat. Bright light filtered through the bag over his head. The bag was tugged off, and he closed his eyes to prevent temporary blindness.

Gradually his eyes adjusted and he saw Andy and Dinger sitting opposite him. There was food and water on the table between them.

They poured him water and he drank it, then he ate a roast beef sandwich in two bites. Dinger offered him a cigarette when he was through.

He must not think about Connor's whereabouts. Connor was probably outside the door, wet and naked, waiting his turn. But all right. Just as Murphy was all right.

"We don't have to go on with this, lad," Dinger said.

"Just say the word, and it's over." Andy lit a cigarette.

They looked at him kindly, as if he were a terminally ill patient.

Murphy did not speak. Even when cold, wet, and naked, sitting in a chair and smoking a cigarette seemed like heaven after what he had been through. He was full of gratitude toward Andy and Dinger, and knew that was exactly how he was supposed to feel.

He smoked his cigarette slowly, savoring it, while observing the room. There were no windows, only double metal doors, one solid, one barred. What he had taken for a bright light was a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. High up on one wall was a grate, less than a foot square, presumably for ventilation. It was too small to get into, or out of.

Dinger offered him another cigarette when he finished his first. He needed more food, but didn't ask for any. They knew he was hungry. There was no fucking point in asking.

Andy spread out several photos on the table. Murphy looked at them and gagged, then vomited up the sandwich. The pictures—large, clear, and in full color—were of bombing victims.

"All in a day's work," Andy said. "Right, Dinger?"

"Aye," Dinger said. "Don't worry, lad, you'll get used to it. You might even get good at it."

"Connor threw in the towel an hour ago," Andy said. "So what are you hanging on for?"

Murphy couldn't believe they'd try such a stupid trick. "No fucken way."

The words came out of him before he had time to think about it. It was his first fuck up. He could not let them antagonize him into speaking again, no matter what they said.

"He's in the next room," Andy said. "Waiting for you to come to your senses."

Murphy forced himself to remain silent.

"He broke easy," Andy said. "You two are fucken pathetic. Those rosaries, for instance, and the prayers you say. Your Da left you because he didn't love ya, but you hang onto what little you have left of him, as if he would give a shit."

For a horrible moment, Murphy thought: _He's right. We're pathetic._ He let out a breath slowly. _Our Da loves us. He left us because he had a fucken good reason to._

"You don't believe me," Andy said. "That's too bad."

Dinger and Andy stood up. They bound his wrists with plasticuffs, but they did not secure him to the chair. They left the room, turning the light off as they exited. The double doors clanged. Through the high-up vent, a faint light came. It was the only light in the room.

Almost immediately, he heard Andy's voice coming through the vent.

"Take the gag off him."

Murphy got out of the chair and took a step toward the shadowy door.

"Stand him up." Andy's voice was nearly as loud and clear as if he were in the room with Murphy. "Hold him like that."

There was a thump. Murphy listened intently, but heard nothing else. Then he heard Andy chuckle.

"Connor, let it go. Save yourself the trouble."

There was another thump, and Murphy heard a low groan. Connor. He slid along the wall of the dark room until his shoulder touched the metal bars of the door, then rested his forehead on them. His breath was coming in hard gasps.

"Stand him up again," Andy said. There was a flurry of sickening thumps. Connor groaned loudly.

Murphy pressed his face against the bars, then turned around, trying to feel with his hands for a door latch, anything. There was nothing. He turned and leaned against the bars again.

He heard a crash, then a bone crack, and Connor shrieked.

"Get your fucken hands off him!" Murphy screamed. "I give up! I quit!"

He panted against the door. There was quiet for a few moments, then he heard Andy.

"That's grand, Murph. But Connor hasn't quit yet. You said so yourself."

Murphy heard another crash, and another shriek from Connor. He battered his body against the door and screamed Connor's name until a fist of light hit him between the eyes.

* * *

Murphy was floating over the schoolyard, but his ability to fly was deteriorating rapidly, as sometimes happened—usually at the most inconvenient time possible, such as when he was being chased by werewolves.

He sank lower and lower, his feet dragging on the ground now and then. At last he came to a complete stop, landing on his arse. He looked up and saw Connor.

Connor _was_ his sister after all.

Murphy would call him _Connie_, like Ma did when Connor was little. Connor wouldn't let anyone use the nickname once he started school, even though it wasn't unusual for a man to have the name in Ireland. Too fucking bad. Connor would have to get used to it all over again.

Murphy stood up, hoping Connie hadn't seen his clumsy landing.

"Howya," he mumbled. Connie was so beautiful he was embarrassed to look at her, much less talk to her.

"Where the fuck were ya?" Connie asked.

As Murphy stood there, trying to remember the answer to Connie's question, a boy on the playground ran up and hit him hard over the head with something.

"Ow!" Murphy clutched his head and bent over.

Connie turned and walked out through the schoolyard gate. She didn't seem to notice Murphy had been attacked. Well, it wasn't like she could do anything about it, was it? She couldn't fight—just _look_ at her.

Life would be better now. He'd have to fight Connie's battles for her; when she insulted a man in a pub, it would be Murphy's job to crack his skull afterward. Then Connie would look up at him gratefully, because she was a couple of inches shorter, and at least thirty pounds lighter. She couldn't lord it over Murphy anymore. She would appreciate him. Need him.

Murphy grinned in spite of the pain in his head, and his cock swelled, even though Connie was lost in her too-large clothes, from back when she had been a boy.

Was it possible Connie didn't know she was a girl yet? That would explain the clothes, the cursing, and the unfeminine way Connie was walking, kicking her legs out as she went. She would notice soon enough—as soon as she had to go to the fucking bathroom!

He followed her out of the schoolyard, and they went home to a place Murphy had never seen, a tall building like a warehouse, where they took the stairs to the top floor. They must be away at university now, living on their own.

"Do you have to go to the toilet?" he asked, trying to speed up her discovery. They sat down on a beat-up couch.

"What do you care?" Connie said.

"I thought you might need to pee." Murphy blushed.

"Jaysus, Murph! What the fuck has got into you?"

"Nothin', why?" Murphy said. Connor had been right; now that Connor was his sister, he didn't know what to do with her. If he touched her, she would break. He could move back in with Ma.

Connie slapped the back of his head. She still had a boy's punch. Murphy put his hands on his head and groaned. As soon as he could see straight, he staggered in the likely direction of the bathroom.

It was an ordinary bathroom except for one thing; there was no toilet, only a hole in the floor. He knew what that meant. He was dreaming. When he had to piss while he was sleeping, he dreamed about toilet-free bathrooms until he finally woke up in frustration.

Relieved, Murphy returned to the living room and sat back on the couch with Connie. No wonder she was acting strangely. None of this was really happening. When he woke up, she'd be talking proper, wearing real girl's clothes. Everything would be normal again. And if this wasn't the Need To Piss dream…

"I think this is a dream with sex in it," Murphy said.

"Is that right, Einstein?" Connie said.

"I want to be on a bed," Murphy said, and they were on a bed.

He couldn't just jump on her, could he? He was supposed to say something to her first. Not only that, he _could_ say it, because Connor was a girl now.

"I love you," Murphy said.

Connie looked at him as if he had turned into Margaret Thatcher.

"I love you more than anything or anyone, even Jesus," Murphy said. His heart soared as he said the words at last.

"Do you love me more than you love yourself?" Connie asked.

"Yeah," Murphy said, relieved she had put it so succinctly.

"_Never_ fucken say that, Murph."

"Why not?" Murphy asked. He figured it was safe for him to put his arms around her. They had talked enough.

"If you love me more than you love yourself, you could get fucken killed trying to save me. If you got killed, I would die."

"Okay," Murphy said. He didn't agree, but he was incapable of saying no to her, especially when they were about to have sex.

"You can love me only as much as you love yourself, and not a fucken bit more." Her voice was nearly frantic.

Summoning up his courage, he pulled her close to kiss her, then unbuttoned her shirt and discovered two small, perfect tits. He immediately fastened his mouth over one. It was better than a fucking cigarette. Maybe he could quit smoking now.

Don't bite, he reminded himself. Give them equal time.

He had to be doing something right, because Connie seemed about to come from it. Murphy's remaining hesitation started to crumble. Keeping his mouth and one hand on her nipples, he put his other hand down the front of her jeans.

He had a moment of confusion. Why was there a cock in his hand? Had he reached into his own jeans by mistake? He slid his hand further down and gasped.

Silky and wet below, and a hard cock in the usual place. She was brother and sister both.

Murphy breathed hard, thanking God he was having a dream with sex in it.

Their clothes were suddenly gone, so he could see her all over. Her legs were the same, still long and tanned, except hairless. Same arse, except rounder.

_Wait for her to reach for you_, he thought. But the admonition wasn't moving any lower than his neck. The rest of him had already come to another decision, rolling Connie onto her back, shoving her legs apart, mounting her. He groaned in shock as he forced his cock into her with one thrust.

One thing hadn't changed. He could feel Connor's love surrounding him, and he could feel his own love pouring out to meet it.

Her moans turned to sobs as she surrendered completely. Before, even when Murphy won, it was still a battle. This time, Connie was _getting fucked_ and couldn't do a thing about it.

His climax rolled through them both. They weren't coming at the same time, they were sharing the same fucking orgasm, until they were spent. Shattered.

_Connor will put me back together._

They collapsed side by side. He was too weak to move or speak. When he could, he would be truthful, damn the consequences.

"It's all right if I love you more than anything, because you love me more than anything," Murphy said.

"I already knew that," Connie said, smirking.

A halo of light formed around her head, dazzling him, until all he could see of her were her serene blue eyes.

Murphy was seeing the Blessed Virgin at last.


	2. Chapter 2

Murphy tried to focus. A man with blond hair was leaning over him. Connor? Andy. _Fucken Andy!_

He roared off the bed, his fist smashing into Andy's face, then he crashed to the floor with a heavy body on top of him. It was Dinger.

"Don't move, Murph." It was Connor speaking. Dinger lifted Murphy back onto the bed.

Connor leaned over him, nearly lay on him, so Murphy could see his unmarked face, feel his unbruised flesh, his unbroken bones. Murphy burst out weeping.

"It was a trick," Connor whispered in his ear. "They beat the shite out of melons, broke sticks. They didn't touch me, Murph."

"I heard you screaming," Murphy said, still sobbing. He ran his hands over Connor's back, his chest, his arms.

Murphy's head felt like someone had jackhammered it, and his body ached like one massive bruise. He got hold of himself and stopped crying. He touched his bandaged forehead and winced. "Did I get a beating?"

"You did that trying to open a steel door with your head," Dinger said. "Gave yourself a concussion, and passed out cold."

Connor lay down on the narrow bed next to Murphy. They just fit.

"Where the fuck are we?" Murphy asked. He raised his head to look at Andy and Dinger. Andy was holding a hand over one side of his face and cursing softly.

"In a hospital in the Republic," Dinger said. "You're listed as a traffic accident victim. They're amazingly common, traffic accidents."

"A fucken hospital?" Murphy said. Why couldn't he remember coming here?

"When you didn't come 'round, they loaded you into the lorry. Took an hour to get here. You've been out for five. They had to scan your head, see if there was bleeding inside." Connor spoke quietly, but his voice was full of fear and exhaustion.

Murphy had scared the shit out of Connor. And he had fucked everything up. Thanks to him, they had failed anti-interrogation.

Andy and Dinger left the room, speaking to someone in the hall, reassuring the staff that everything was fine.

A doctor came in and swiftly examined Murphy, shining a light in his eyes. He said nothing about Connor lying on the bed, so Murphy guessed Connor had been there the entire time.

A nurse came in and gave Murphy a painkiller, his first, as they couldn't give him one while he was unconscious. It worked swiftly. His head still ached, but it no longer felt like a bomb had gone off inside it.

"I'm sorry, Connor."

"I was in the room next to ya," Connor said. "Tied and gagged. I heard you calling for me. Heard you stop calling for me."

Murphy clumsily tried to stroke him.

"When I saw you on the floor, your head gashed open, I thought you'd fucken killed yourself, trying to save me. I'm the one who's sorry, Murph. You have to promise…"

Not caring who was watching, Murphy put his arms around Connor. _If you got killed, I would die._ He fought off the wave of raw emotion that was trying to choke him.

"First they tried to trick me by telling me you had quit," Murphy said. "At least I didn't fall for that one."

"Wasn't a trick," Connor said. "Andy told me what they were planning, and I told 'im to let you go. Fucken Andy didn't."

"How'd Andy make you scream?" Murphy said.

Connor spoke low in his ear. "He didn't. You did." Connor tried to laugh. "Andy used the tapes. He must have edited them."

Murphy thought of the blow he had landed on Andy's face. That punch had been only the down payment.

"You're going to be all right, Murph," Connor said, as if he were praying.

* * *

After twenty-four hours, Murphy was released from the hospital. Andy came and gave them their rosaries, then Dinger picked them up in an old Capri and drove them to Belfast, back to the youth hostel. They did not speak during the two hour journey.

Murphy spent two days in bed, Connor fetching him curries and fish and chips, but never going far. Because of his concussion, when Murphy was sleeping, Connor had to wake him up every two hours.

Dinger dropped by on the third day, and told them to get to the club off Falls Road the next night.

Murphy assumed it was for an official send-off. _Here lie the MacManus twins, who failed anti-interrogation training. All you have to do is beat on one of them, and the other will quit._

They had failed before they had even started. The disappointment was bitter. He hoped for the first time that their Da was far away, out of reach of rumors. Connor, he could see, was crushed. Murphy had imagined many scenarios, but not this one—that the Provos wouldn't find them worthy. He hadn't discussed it with Connor, but he knew if they were offered positions with the auxiliaries, the young boys and old men who carried messages and acted as look-outs, they would reject it. It was active service or nothing for them.

They were led to a back room that held eight men, including Andy and Dinger.

While lying on his bed in the youth hostel, Murphy had worried. How had Andy explained the tapes? Did anyone aside from Andy know what the sounds really were—cries of pleasure, not pain? If the topic of the tapes came up, Murphy didn't want it to be in front of an audience.

A brief glance about the room convinced him Andy was not in charge. There was one man who was the center of attention. He was in his mid-forties, dark-haired, bearded, and he wore glasses. He looked like a college don.

The only person in the room who looked completely at ease, however, was Andy. He had his hands clasped behind his head and was leaning back in his chair. The purple-pink skin around his left eye wasn't doing anything to dampen his spirits. His grin was huge. _Got you._

The don shuffled a stack of papers on the table. "I've reviewed the reports from Andy and the others."

_The IRA writes stuff like this down?_ Murphy was surprised.

"I've got one question for you." The don aimed his chin at Murphy. "Assume Andy and Dinger returned to the interview room to question you, before you knocked yourself out. What would you have done?"

"Torn their fucken heads off," Murphy said immediately, surprised again. What else?

"And Connor would have had their guts for garters. You might cry, piss your pants, and kill yourselves, but you won't talk. That's all that matters." The don smiled.

"We passed?" Connor said, his mouth opening in surprise.

"But we quit," Murphy said. There had been a grotesque mistake.

The college don looked at Andy, then at Murphy and Connor. "I'm inclined to give you to her majesty's traitor."

"I don't want 'em," Andy said, doing a poor job of hiding his disappointment.

"They have information that should be known only to your cell, and you need two men, Andy. If I choose two others, I've doubled the risk. Next time, perhaps, you won't send recruits through training before they've had the proper psychological preparation. It's done, big nose."

Andy was looking at him and Connor with the strangest expression. As if his disappointment extended to himself.

* * *

They went to Donegal in the Capri. Andy had them sit up front while he and Dinger sat in the cramped rear seats.

"Why did Gary call you her majesty's traitor?" Murphy asked. Gary was the college don; he had warmly introduced himself to Murphy and Connor before they had departed, telling them he had known their Da.

"Always assume your vehicle is bugged, gobshite," Andy said.

"But we know how good ye are at finding them," Connor said.

Dinger laughed. "They've got you there, big nose."

"Then you fucken tell 'em about it, bigger nose."

"Once upon a time, Andy was a poor bastard of a paratrooper in Yorkshire."

Murphy was at the wheel; he took his eyes off the road long enough to glance quickly at Connor, who was smirking.

They had concluded Andy had been in the British Army, but had fought about which branch. Connor had just won the fucking bet, because Murphy was sure Andy had been a Green Jacket.

"Andy decided to supplement his income by selling her majesty's goods. He progressed rapidly from tins of salmon to guns. He was about to land in the shit, when he had the stellar idea of blowing up the barracks."

"Ripon, North Yorkshire?" Connor said. "That was you, Andy?"

Murphy laughed. "Holy fucken shit!" He remembered reading about it in the paper. No one had been hurt, but the barracks had been completely destroyed.

"Having burned his bridges behind him, big nose the ex-paratrooper made his way to the Republic, and the rest is history." Dinger applauded himself.

"The barracks needed blowing up," Andy said. "I did 'em a fucken favor."

"I forgot something," Dinger said. "Before blowing up the barracks, Andy made one last massive snatch. He thought the lightshow would cover it up, but it didn't. And there you have her majesty's traitor."

"Fuck off," Andy said.

"In spite of his spectacular career, the Provos haven't been keen on him—he's a Scot, and you can't trust those greedy bastards. Me, I'm Derry born and bred. I've been throwing rocks at the Royal Ulster Constabulary since I was half the size of Andy's nose."

Murphy's eyes watered from laughing. A thought occurred to him. "Andy, what were ya before you were a paratrooper?"

Dinger answered for him. "A Green Jacket."

* * *

In Donegal, they were again bedded down in a remote house near a small village, but this time they were staying with a family—except that the family was Republican, and currently occupied elsewhere. Only the old Gran was in residence. She was more than happy to put each of them up in their own bedroom, and even happier to put Connor and Murphy in one room when they asked for it.

It was the room that belonged to her two granddaughters. The walls were papered with roses as big as cabbages, the carpet was pink, and so were the sheets. Not that Murphy cared. He and Connor never paid attention to their surroundings. If the beds were decent and there was a lock on the door, they were content.

Andy gave them a three-day holiday before getting down to business; more volunteers and trainers were coming, and Andy was waiting for them.

During the day, Murphy and Connor went for walks in the hills; in the evening, they passed time at the local pub. After thirty minutes of silent mutual study, the locals welcomed them.

Murphy loved to watch Connor in a new pub. Connor flirted with everyone: he lit the cigarettes of old crones, and fetched pints for the old men. With the married women, he was elaborately courteous. With the young misses, his courtesy went up a notch, until Murphy was surprised he didn't bow and kiss their hands. Connor was wary only with the young men, but that was self-preservation, as every last one of them looked like they wanted to thump him.

Their second night there, Murphy's eye was caught by a young man who sported several tattoos. They were amateur work, yet dark and clean-edged.

Maeve, a married women they were having a drink with, called the tattooed man over and introduced him as her brother Kyle. He must have noticed their admiration of his tattoos, for he asked if they were interested in getting any. "A friend of mine does 'em. Doesn't charge much, either."

"We've got a few already, but sure," Connor said. He and Connor rolled up their sleeves to show them.

Maeve let out a squeak.

"Verra nice," Kyle enthused, examining the Celtic crosses. "What's your problem, silly girl?" he said to his sister.

"Oh, nothin'. I thought I had seen those crosses before, on some other gentlemen." Maeve blushed maroon.

Connor burst out laughing. "Were the gentlemen wearing bags over their heads at the time?"

She squeaked again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Keep your tongue in it," Kyle said, but he was smiling. "So you've already met the local harpy brigade?"

"Is that why they cover our faces? So you can't be recognizing us later?" Connor's smirk at Maeve was lethal.

"I was wondering why the bags were so long—must have been to cover up the Blessed Mother on your necks." Maeve hurriedly took herself off to where a few other women were sitting, and there was an explosion of cackling.

"You are fucked now, lads," Kyle said happily. "Of all the pubs in Ireland, you had to come to this one, where your charms—or lack of them—are already known."

* * *

Murphy sweated. He had thought getting the tattoo on his neck was painful; this one on his hand was the worst of them all. But Connor had borne it without a sound, so Murphy would as well.

_Veritas._

Connor lit a cigarette and stuck it in Murphy's mouth. Murphy took a deep drag from it while Connor held the cigarette for him.

Fuck! Why had he picked the word with more letters?

_Aequitas._

* * *

Two dozen volunteers came for training, three of them women, and for the first time they saw the Donegal-Fermanagh IRA camp, though Murphy suspected it was where they had been held during anti-interrogation.

Their political instructor was the college don, Gary. A hard-nosed arsehole named Keith was their operations instructor. Andy was there as a specialist, setting up and supervising the weapons exercises.

Murphy was in gun heaven. The variety available in the camp was amazing. Belgian, Austrian, Israeli, American. He liked the Italian Berettas the best.

To his great disappointment, he couldn't keep any of the guns with him; to hinder the Brit forensic teams, everything stayed in the camp.

When they arrived at the camp in the morning, they undressed, put their clothing into plastic bags, and changed into their training clothes. They wore thin rubber gloves at all times. At the end of the day, they showered and changed back into their street clothes.

Keith was competent, but Murphy nearly hated the man. He and Connor were light years ahead of the other volunteers, but Keith treated them as if they were shite. During weapons practice in the underground firing range, every time he did something the (better) way he had learned from Andy the previous summer, Keith called him an idiot.

He noted Andy disliked Keith as well. While he was still furious at Andy, he trusted Andy's judgment.

For instance, Murphy now knew Andy was right; he and Connor _could_ break during interrogation if the Brits had the obvious idea of using them against each other.

He wasn't sure how much he liked Gary, either. But he forced himself to pay close attention during the man's talks, because in Northern Ireland they had a multitude of enemies.

Theoretically, Northern Ireland was protected from the IRA by the RUC, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. But the RUC couldn't protect even themselves, so the RUC were protected by the UDR, the Ulster Defense Regiment. The UDR, one hundred percent Protestant, were one of the main targets of the IRA, so they in turn were protected by the British Army. But the British Army had taken a lot of casualties, so they were protected by the SAS!

The Special Air Service, called _sass_, had arrived in force in the mid-1970s. While they were supposedly there to prevent sectarian violence—Protestants killing Catholics and vice versa—a British Army officer had said at the time that the SAS would do what everyone else had failed to do: kill terrorists. Meaning the IRA.

A volunteer asked, "Is it true the SAS has a shoot-to-kill policy?"

Andy snorted. "They're not fucken _shootin' to wound_."

Deadliest of all, there were more than a dozen underground Protestant paramilitary groups. They had murdered hundreds of Catholics since the Six Counties joined the United Kingdom in 1921. The largest of them was the UVF, the Ulster Volunteer Force. Since the massacre of the eight IRA men in Loughgall the year before, the UVF were emboldened, gunning down un-armed Sinn Fein members and their families.

The SAS, who cooperated with the RUC and UDR, were, intentionally or otherwise, feeding intelligence to the Protestant paramilitary groups. Many of the RUC and UDR men went home at the end of the day, only to leave home at night with stockings over their heads as members of the UVF.

In addition to the history of the IRA and its political program, Gary told them about their rights. If they were captured, they were supposed to be treated as prisoners of war, not as common criminals. That meant they kept their own clothes, among other things.

It had been a sobering day. Gary had given them the statistics on the number of IRA men shot dead by the SAS.

Protestant paramilitaries, who the Brits officially classified as terrorists, had also been apprehended by the SAS. But while hundreds of IRA men had died during "arrests," not a single Protestant paramilitary had ever been killed by the Brit special forces.

And that, Murphy thought, said a hell of a lot more about the Brits than any number of bullshit statements from politicians.

* * *

Eight weeks passed swiftly. It was nearly time for them to leave Ireland if they were going to attend university in America, yet they had made no attempt to get their university registration problems sorted.

It was making Murphy tense, but not as much as the fact that he and Connor had no time alone.

The camp was full to overflowing, so volunteers had moved into the house with them. Two of them were sleeping on the floor of his and Connor's room. During the day, they were too busy—their instruction took up to twelve hours a day—and at night, if they had enough energy to stay awake, they gathered at the pub, where Gary continued to hold court.

Connor seemed to be in love with the man—not romantically, but in the way a young soldier loved a great general. Connor told Murphy that Gary was a close relative of Gerry Adams, the president of Sinn Fein and the leader of the Provisional IRA.

Murphy didn't give a fuck if Gary was Big Gerry's Ma. He listened with increasing dismay to Connor's gushing.

"He knew our Da. Said we're just like him. You know what Gary said, Murph? That he expects great things of me. Of us." Connor glowed from the praise.

"That's fucken great," Murphy said. "Is he going to pay our college tuition as well?"

"He deserves our respect, Murph," Connor said angrily.

"Oh, I respect the hell out of 'im," Murphy said.

Fuck! They had come north to find their Da, not on a quest for the holy grail. Murphy had agreed to it because Connor was sure, if they joined the IRA, their Da would learn of it, and come looking for them. There had been no sign of their Da, and still Connor sounded _converted_.

It was too easy to imagine Connor rising swiftly through the ranks of the IRA; that was what was scaring Murphy shitless. Connor would be fucking good at it.

He knew no man or woman could take Connor from him. But could the IRA? It had taken their Da, hadn't it?

Murphy wouldn't let him go easy. If Connor really wanted to stay with the Provos, he'd not leave his side. He'd be his bodyguard, his fucking driver, if need be.

When Connor left for the pub that night, Murphy remained behind. He needed a night of quiet—but not sobriety. He retreated to the kitchen with Gran, who had plied him with her homemade parsnip wine in the past. Right now, what he wanted was to get pants pissing drunk. Keith would smash him through the floor during training the next day, but it would be worth it.

* * *

Murphy and Gran had downed at least three glasses each when Keith came into the kitchen. He was staying in the house as well, and had taken Andy's room, so Andy was sharing with Dinger.

Murphy was sure Andy's anger at the change in sleeping arrangements was feigned.

Like last time, Andy had gone all business on them when their training started. But Murphy didn't think it was due to being preoccupied. Wherever Andy went, there also went Dinger. Dinger shadowed Andy, except Dinger was too fucking substantial to call a shadow.

Murphy had been surprised by Andy's choice; he wouldn't have thought Andy, a fucking control-freak, would want a lover stronger and scarier than himself. Maybe Andy controlled Dinger some other way…

He put the thought aside. If he dwelled on it any longer, he'd be scaring Gran.

Keith put on a kettle and made a big show out of making a pot of tea, as if to point out what drunks he and Gran were. Murphy choked on his wine when Gran imitated Keith's scowl.

Keith's fist pounded Murphy's back at exactly the wrong time, making him cough and choke more.

"Sod off, will ya, Keith?" Gran said. "Your face is sourin' me wine."

"You're another molly coddler of the MacManus twins, aren't you, you old hag?" Keith, holding a mug of tea with both hands, sat down at the kitchen table.

"Sure, but what can you do?" Gran said.

"I've got a comm for you from Liam," Keith said. He put his mug down, got out his billfold, and extracted a tiny square of folded cigarette papers.

"Bless you, you bastard," she said. "Murphy, read it out for me."

Murphy squinted at the tiny handwriting. Liam, whoever he might be, had covered the five cigarette papers front and back. He knew that prisoners smuggled out messages this way, but he had never seen one.

"Dear Gran, my health is good. I'm studying my arse off at Republican University. When I get home, I'll teach you a thing or two. Save me some of your parsnip wine. Do not kill unsuspecting guests with it, either. I love you. Liam."

There was an awkward silence as Gran put her head down on her arms and wept for thirty seconds. Then she sat up straight and looked at them brightly, as if nothing had happened.

"You don't look dead yet," she said to Murphy. "Have another glass of me wine."

Keith surprised them both by drinking down the rest of his tea and holding out his mug for wine. Gran filled it to the brim.

"Who else is guilty of molly coddling us?" Murphy asked.

"Andy. Dinger. Gary. Gary was the one who wanted you here, instead of in camp. What the fuck for? You should be sleeping on a cot like the rest of 'em."

Murphy laughed. "Molly coddling? Andy beats the shite out of me every day." He pulled up his sleeves to show his bruises. Gran made a clicking sound of distress.

Andy had been teaching them specialized fighting: how to fight when pressed into a crowd, when there was barely room to swing your arms. How to take a gun away from a man.

"You wouldn't have passed anti-interrogation training if I'd been running it," Keith said.

Gran developed a keen interest in the lace work on the table linens.

"Yeah?" Murphy said. Anything that referred to the tapes, however obliquely, turned him as tense as a wire.

"You got off too easy. When the Brits had me, they put a dead body in the cell with me. The body of one of our men. They left it there two days."

Murphy had heard rumors about it; he hadn't known it was Keith that it had happened to. He reached for the wine and topped off Keith's mug.

"I still can't believe Andy faked it!" Keith said. "I was going to beat Connor bloody, before your very fucken eyes."

"Yeah," Murphy said. "Well. I was stupid enough to fall for it." The sympathy he had felt for Keith moments earlier vanished. _You fucking sadistic bastard!_

"Bloody stupid," Keith agreed. He held his mug out for more wine, but Gran got up and put the bottle in the cupboard.

"I'm saving it for Liam," she said.

* * *

As soon as Keith left for bed, Gran asked Murphy to retrieve the wine. He sat back down and told her, "Almost empty. We didn't drink the last of it, did we?"

"I've eight bottles in the cellar. Fetch another one for us, lad."

Murphy grinned as he went down the steep steps. The cellar smelled wonderful, of hams, apples, and cheese. He found the shelf of wine bottles, and was baffled.

None of the bottles were labeled, and they were all colors and shapes. He decided to bring one up of every variety and let Gran choose. He looked around for a bucket or basket to carry them in.

"What the fuck are you doing down here?" Andy said angrily.

Andy had appeared out of nowhere. He was so unusually agitated that Murphy felt a touch of fear.

"Gettin' wine for Gran. Ya know which is the parsnip?"

Andy stared at the bottles, a thin sheen of sweat on him. Murphy wondered if he had discovered Andy in the act with Dinger. But it didn't make sense. Andy wouldn't bother to hide that from him.

"What are _you_ doing down here?" Murphy said, his curiosity overcoming his caution.

"The amber bottles with the long necks," Andy said.

"Thanks."

"I had to get away for a bit. I've been cleaning my guns, and thinking."

Murphy pushed past an unresisting Andy, and saw a heavily scarred wooden table in a corner. Gun parts were strewn all over it.

He understood Andy's nervousness now. It was against the rules to take guns out of the camp during training. He sat down on a stool and began cleaning the guns. Andy joined him and they finished the job quickly.

"Enjoying your stay?" Murphy said. His smile felt crooked; Gran's wine was strong.

"Yeah," Andy said unconvincingly. "And you?"

"Not so much now that I'm sharing a room with two other blokes."

"Miss him, do ya?"

Murphy looked down at the table and picked up a Beretta. "He follows Gary around, waiting for words of wisdom to fall out of his arse."

Andy laughed, but he was looking at Murphy warily. Murphy realized it was the first time he had spoken civilly to Andy since anti-interrogation. Andy didn't know Murphy had forgiven him, after learning what Keith had planned for Connor.

"I don't have the tapes anymore," Andy said suddenly, as if he were partially reading Murphy's mind. "They're destroyed now. In case you were worrying about them."

Murphy stroked the gun barrel. Andy was no longer grimy; he'd been washing up daily after training, just like the rest of them, to make sure there was no residue for the Brits to find. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, showing off his arms. And now that Andy was smiling again, Murphy was remembering what a good-looking bloke he was.

Murphy put the tip of the gun barrel between his teeth and looked at Andy. Still looking at Andy, he opened his mouth wider and pushed the barrel down his throat as far as it could go.

_Remind you of anything?_

The gun was yanked out of his mouth so hard his teeth rattled. They both stood, knocking the table over. Andy grabbed him by the throat.

"If you ever do that again, I'll fucken kill you!" Andy roared.

Murphy grabbed Andy's hands, tugging until Andy let go of his neck. He pulled his T-shirt off over his head, tossed it on the floor, then put his hands on Andy's waist and leaned against him.

"You're drunk and don't know what you're doing." Andy seemed to be trying to convince himself.

"I wasn't too drunk to clean your guns," Murphy said. He ground his crotch against Andy's thigh.

"They aren't loaded. I am." Andy grinned.

Encouraged, Murphy tried to kiss him, but Andy pushed him away.

"Take the bottle to Gran. Go." Andy handed him a bottle, turned him around, and pushed him toward the stairs.

Cursing Andy, and Dinger for good measure, Murphy went. He found Gran asleep in her chair in the kitchen. He helped her up, walked her to her bedroom, then left her once she sat on her bed. He went to his bedroom, which was still empty of volunteers, stripped everything off, and fell onto the narrow bed.

He had forgotten to thank Andy for foiling that bastard Keith. And he had forgotten his T-shirt; Andy, that fucking pervert, was probably wanking off with it right now!

* * *

The last phase of training was demolitions and offensive driving. Murphy hated the first and loved the latter. Shooting out of a moving vehicle was the ultimate thrill, reminding him that he liked guns a little too much. And intentionally smashing into another car? Beautiful.

It was during this time that things took a sudden turn for the better.

He talked Connor into visiting the cellar, where they drank most of a bottle of parsnip wine, then fucked feverishly on the stone floor, heedless of their bruises and sore muscles.

Things improved even more one night at the pub. It was Saturday night, so everyone was there, drinking heavy, as they'd have a rare day off the next day. Gary was informally lecturing them on "soft targets" and "acquiring targets."

Soft targets were policeman and soldiers who were off duty; Murphy had heard the jargon before. But the other he didn't understand until Connor exploded. "You can't be fucken asking for special prisoner status when you're out shooting barmaids!"

Gary was talking about killing civilians.

Before Gary could defend himself, Connor pelted him with examples, such as hotel staff who had been murdered because they catered to British servicemen. The IRA had shot a nurse who treated a constable. Every time Gary tried to open his mouth, Connor had another story.

The argument grew more and more heated, everyone joining in, at last ending with a weak conclusion from Gary: the Provisional IRA didn't do that sort of thing… anymore.

"I mean it," Gary said unconvincingly. "Just look at all the killings the UVF have done. We haven't retaliated, have we?"

"We fucking well should," Keith said. "They kill a teacher, we kill a teacher! They blow up a bus, we blow up a fucken bus! That's how it should be. That's how it _was_."

Connor leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, and glared at Gary.

Murphy hid his grin in his beer.

* * *

Dressed in their old work boots and coveralls, Murphy and Connor were driving the reinforced cattle truck to county Tyrone. Andy and Dinger were hidden in the back.

The weapons dump on Rachel's and Ryan's farm was their first destination. From there they'd head to the city of Derry, called Londonderry by the Brits.

Before their first mission, Andy had spoken to them almost formally, thanking them for keeping the location of his weapons dump secret. Murphy had shrugged. They had kept the secret for their cousins' sake, not Andy's.

Today, they'd drive the cattle truck straight to the dairy barn on their cousins' farm, where Andy and Dinger would exit under cover. After that, the cattle truck would be used for a few days to transport grass to the bunker silos. When that work was complete, they'd stop at the bunker concealing the weapons, load up, and be on their way immediately. He and Connor would still be driving the cattle truck; Andy and Dinger would switch to a van and follow them.

Near Derry, they'd stop at a filling station and switch again, Andy taking the truck, Dinger taking a car left there for him, Murphy and Connor driving the van. Then came the dangerous part of the mission, unloading the weapons in Free Derry. He and Connor would serve as lookouts. They did not know what Dinger would be up to. Everything was on a need-to-know basis.

They would carry AR-15s, the same guns carried by the enemy, since the guns were coming from Andy, courtesy of the Claro Barracks in North Yorkshire. Right now, they had not even a shotgun on them.

Murphy was nervous, or "flapping," as Andy called it, because their mission, although simple and relatively low risk, was critical.

A major weapons dump on the north shore of Lough Neagh had been tampered with. The guns had been "jarked," meaning miniature transmitters were hidden on them so British intelligence could monitor IRA movements.

The entire weapons dump had been abandoned, and all the weapons recently taken from the dump were destroyed. Every weapon in use was scanned for transmitters. As a result, there was a critical shortage of weapons for the Tyrone/Monaghan and Southern Armagh IRA brigades.

Then more nastiness broke out. Instead of destroying the weapons, a quartermaster in county Tyrone had sold a few on the black market. He was court-martialed by the IRA and shot.

It gave Murphy the shivers that the enemy could track where they were, where they were going. He was grateful he and Connor were in Andy's cell; Andy could smell a bug a mile off.

* * *

After six days of farming and eating cupcakes with their cousins, he and Connor were back in the cab of the truck, on the A6, heading north to Derry.

Murphy drove while Connor watched for the cutover, which would put them on the Catholic side of the River Foyle, where the RUC couldn't patrol without an armed escort. The filling station was on the cutover.

He and Connor looked authentic enough. Cow shit on their boots, grass stuck to their coveralls. If anyone opened the back of the cattle truck, all they would see were hay bales. Except for a few, the guns were in canvas bags, covered with straw, and behind the hay bale barrier.

* * *

At the filling station, there was something to panic about immediately.

They had been instructed to put the cattle truck near a telephone kiosk, but the space was occupied by two Toyota vans. Murphy picked the next best spot, close to the kiosk, still leaving plenty of room to maneuver.

Were the vans a coincidence, or not?

As planned, they went to take a piss in the field behind the filling station. By the time they finished, Andy and Dinger, a mile behind them, should have arrived in the van, and parked it near the cattle truck. Dinger would leave first in the car, then Andy in the cattle truck, then he and Connor in the van.

They returned to the car park and saw that Andy and Dinger had arrived, but they hadn't pulled into their designated spot. The vans that had blocked Connor and Murphy earlier were gone —so Andy must be wondering why the fuck they hadn't put the cattle truck where it was supposed to be.

Clearly, the vans weren't a coincidence. The plan had fallen apart.

They were supposed to walk to Andy and Dinger's van, and Andy and Dinger were still in it. They had no choice but to head for the cattle truck. As they did, Andy and Dinger got out of the van and walked toward them.

Murphy gave Andy the signal that they needed to get the fuck out, head for the border of the Republic, which was tantalizingly close. The signal was to scrape the soles of his boots on the tarmac. _Just getting the shit off my boots_. Andy ignored him—he hadn't seen the vans, so he must be thinking Murphy was flapping.

"What do we do?" Murphy said to Connor.

"Rear of the truck," Connor said. It was their defensive position if they were attacked. "Fuck!"

Murphy heard the squeal of the vans returning. Dinger vanished.

They were only ten yards from the truck now. Andy ran for the cab and they ran for the rear. They opened the doors up and got in just as Andy roared out of the car park at forty miles an hour. In reverse. Then they tore down the road. Andy seemed to be making for the border.

They were being shot at. They could hear the reports, but no bullets were hitting the truck.

It amazed Murphy how clearly he could think, as if he had all the time in the world. He and Connor slipped on industrial glasses, balaclavas, and thin rubber gloves. They grabbed two AR-15s and slid up panels in the rear doors, then opened fire at the vans trying to overtake them.

The van immediately behind them had lost its windscreen, as the men inside were shooting through it. Murphy aimed for the tyres, the cordite in the air already burning his lungs.

Andy had told him that, unless he was lucky enough to kill the driver outright, it was better to disable the vehicle. "They'll have three spare drivers, but only one spare tyre."

The advice was good, for the van went off the road and smashed into a tree. He and Connor were hurled against the side of the truck as Andy spun it, then accelerated. Andy was going to ram the remaining van.

He and Connor flattened themselves out on the straw and waited for the impact. It was softer than they expected; the heavy truck barely slowed down when it pushed the van off the road.

Andy turned the truck around again, and now it was really moving. Murphy had learned the truck could reach speeds of 120 km an hour, although it wasn't the smoothest of rides. How far were they from the border? Five miles?

They could hear sirens and see flashing blue lights as the RUC scrambled after them. The men in the vans were not RUC, then. Murphy had already guessed that. They had to be Protestant paramilitaries, raw recruits; few of their bullets had hit their mark.   
Murphy peered out of the back, closing the slit halfway as they no longer needed to fire their guns through it. The sound of the truck at top speed was deafening. Everything squeaked and rattled. A minute passed. Another minute. They were going to make it to the border. Then Andy would drive them far into Donegal before halting.

The cattle truck's speed dropped; they were over the border. Murphy hoped Dinger had made it as well. Dinger should have had an easy time of it—everyone had followed the cattle truck.

They removed their masks, eye protection, and gloves. Murphy laughed when Connor rolled him onto his back and started to strip his coveralls off.

Murphy unzipped his coveralls down to his crotch and grinned.

"You're bleedin'," Connor said. "Lie still!"

Murphy let Connor make a thorough search of him. When Connor found nothing, he stared down at Murphy, perplexed.

Murphy sat up. "_You're_ bleedin'."

It was a cut on the side of Connor's neck, under his hair. It was not deep or dangerous looking, but it had bled freely, staining Murphy's coveralls. Murphy found the medical kit and bandaged the wound.

He lay on his back in the straw as Connor ripped at his coveralls again. "You're all right, Murph," Connor said, as if Murphy was in doubt of it.

Connor soon had him nearly shucked. Under his coveralls, Murphy was wearing only shorts, since they had clothes to change into later hidden under the straw. There were zippers in the legs of the coveralls, so they could come off over his boots, but Connor was too impatient, wadding everything up around Murphy's ankles. Then Connor lay on him and rubbed against him, kissing him as if they had been parted from each other for months.

_Shooting guns out of speeding vehicles makes him need a fast fuck, too._ Murphy turned over; they would be using only spit, and he needed all the help he could get. Next time they went arms smuggling, he and Connor would know to be prepared for the post-firefight fuck.

"Fucken Murph!" Connor said, as if Murphy had been contradicting him for the last hour.

Murphy laughed, then realized he had been laughing ever since he knew they were safe over the border. No wonder Connor was talking to himself. Murphy sounded like a lunatic. Only one thing was going to shut him up.

He pressed his face into the straw when Connor licked him fast, with broad sweeping strokes of his tongue. He heard Connor spit into his hand, then _Fucken shit! Connor's going at it rough._

Twenty seconds later he was howling at Connor to do it harder and faster. Connor was still talking to himself.

"Murph's all right. _You_ were the one fucken bleedin'."

It seemed to come as a surprise to Connor that he was fucking Murphy. Murphy stopped laughing as Connor slammed into him. He reached under himself to rub his cock, which slapped against his belly every time Connor thrust into him.

"Murph!" Both of Connor's hands went to Murphy's hips, his fingernails digging in hard, and Murphy knew he was coming.

Connor wrapped his hand around Murphy's cock and finished him off before he withdrew. Murphy swore when Connor wiped him off with straw. "Fuck! That itches!"

"Better get used to it," Connor said, smirking.

The cattle truck was coming to a stop. They heard the engine cut off and the back doors opened five seconds later. Andy was on them like a wolf on hares.


	3. Chapter 3

Andy had Connor's coveralls down and over his boots in seconds, reminding Murphy of a sheep shearing event he'd seen televised from Australia.

Murphy was mesmerized. It was like watching a football champion make a goal, or a skier go off a high jump; Andy was fucking good at what he was doing.

It wasn't until Andy kissed Connor that Murphy realized Andy planned on fucking his twin.

And there were so many guns handy: poor planning on Andy's part. Murphy would shoot him in the thigh, or maybe even his arse, but he had to get Andy off his brother first.

Murphy slid toward them and tried to kick Andy; he'd rile Andy up, then Andy would go after him. But Murphy's feet were hopelessly tangled in his clothing. He tugged up his shorts, then his coveralls, and zipped them up to mid-chest. Now he was cleared for action.

Connor had rolled over on to his hands and knees, and Andy was already getting a condom on. Murphy stopped short, staring. Connor _wanted_ to get fucked. Right now.

Andy hadn't wasted a second. Jeans and briefs off. Lube. Fingers. Fingers out. Cock in.

_Oh yeah, fuck him_, Murphy thought. He groped himself through his coveralls.

Connor was splayed out on the straw as if he had been dropped there from a height. Andy hauled Connor's hips up so he was on his knees again. Andy's eyes met Murphy's. He stopped moving and looked at Murphy deliberately, waiting for him.

Murphy knelt next to him and put his hand on Connor's back while Andy fucked him. He loved watching his cock go into Connor's arse, but he had never seen Connor get fucked this close.

He took his hand off Connor's back long enough to jerk the coveralls and his shorts back down, then searched the pockets of Andy's jeans until he found the lube. He squirted some into his hand and stroked his cock. He wasn't sure he could come again, but it didn't matter.

He slid one finger down the crack of Connor's arse until it was touching Andy's cock. Andy stopped moving. He stared down at Murphy's finger until Murphy slid it in.

Suddenly there was straw in the air. Connor was tearing at it with his hands, digging a hole. Murphy kept his finger still, then tried to move it in time with Andy's cock. He put another finger in, and both he and Andy had to stop for a moment because Connor let out a rough gasp. Was it hurting him? Did Connor care if it was?

Murphy turned his fingers so the sensitive pads touched Andy's smooth hard cock. With his other hand, still wet with lube, he worked two fingers into Andy's arse.

He'd had two tongues, two cocks, and now he was having two arses. He had saved the best for last.

By pushing his fingers into Andy, he controlled how hard and how fast Andy fucked Connor. He slowed down and Andy slowed down. He sped the movement of his arm up and Andy fucked Connor harder. It made it easy to move his fingers inside Connor in tandem with Andy's cock.

Andy and Connor were going to pieces, shaking and trembling around his fingers. He was going to break them.

Murphy pressed up against Andy, rubbing his cock on the back of Andy's bare thigh, and prayed he wouldn't break first. He bit down on Andy's shoulder and, with his fingers, fucked them both.

Connor broke first. Andy broke second. Murphy had a moment of gloating which lasted until he felt Andy's cock pulsing next to his fingers. He came on Andy's thigh. His dead weight bore them all sideways onto the straw.

"The things you're fucken good at, Murph," Connor said.

* * *

Back in Donegal, they went over the operation: where it had gone to shit, what they should have done.

Murphy and Connor accepted the responsibility for the cock-up, agreeing they should not have got out of the cattle truck at the filling station, which would have told Andy and Dinger something was wrong. They were lucky the men in the vans hadn't opened fire on them when they went to take a piss.

Murphy was not pleased; prior to the mission, he had asked what he should do if other vehicles were in his way, and he had been told to use his judgment, to pick the next best spot. To not overreact. And he hadn't. He and Connor had stayed calm and given Andy and Dinger the signal to clear out when they were sure the vans weren't there coincidentally.

He and Connor went to the pub that night and sat by themselves, staring into space.

"What are you thinking?" Murphy asked. He didn't have to say what about.

"I'm thinking about something Gary told me. The average Active Service Volunteer lasts only three months."

"That's November," Murphy said. "What about university?"

"I don't know how far I want to take this, Murph. Part of me feels like it's what Da would want. As if… as if I was born to do it."

"You'd be the best," Murphy said. It was the truth, no matter how he felt about it.

"Another part tells me it will be nothing but ugly compromises, until I'm as cynical as that bastard Keith."

"Andy's not cynical," Murphy countered, and wondered why he had said it.

"He's a good man. A bit of a satyr, but he knows when to keep it in his pants."

"Yeah," Murphy said regretfully. "He does."

"One more op, then we'll decide?" Connor asked.

Murphy nodded in reluctant agreement, then their discussion was interrupted by two young women.

The rural girls they had met were either painfully shy, or painfully aggressive. These two were one of each.

The aggressive one sat down next to them and said, "Buy me a pint?"

"Sure," Connor said.

"One for my friend? She wants a half."

"I want a pint," the girl said. "Why do you always say I want a half?"

"You can barely finish a half. Jaysus!"

He and Connor didn't speak while the bartender fetched their drinks. They could tell the girls knew who they were, perhaps wanted something from them.

When the shy girl finished her half, she put her glass down with a bang.

"Is it true you saw the Virgin Mary?" she asked. Her eyes seemed to be looking in different directions.

"Oh, aye," Connor said, finally smiling for real.

"Twice," Murphy put in. He held up two fingers.

The girl was impressed. "On the same day, like?"

"No," Murphy said. "First time was a long time ago, when we were ten."

"Eleven," Connor corrected him.

"I saw her another time," Murphy said, then shut up. People near them in the pub had stopped talking to listen. He hurriedly drank the rest of his beer so they could leave.

* * *

They set out to walk the two miles home. Murphy made sure their legs were swinging along together.

"I saw the Blessed Virgin again, but I'm not sure it counts," Murphy said.

"Is that so," Connor said neutrally.

"When we were going through anti-interrogation, I pictured her in my head, because I was about to go crazy. There was a man saying all this horrible shit…"

"Let's not talk about him, all right?"

Murphy put his arm around Connor's shoulders. After a moment, Connor put his arm around Murphy's waist. They had to walk slower.

"When I was unconscious, I saw her again, for real, I think. But…"

"Jaysus, Murph, you're sweatin'!"

"I think I'm going to Hell," Murphy said.

They walked on for a while. Connor moved his hand from Murphy's waist to the back of his neck, so Murphy slid his arm to Connor's waist.

"All I saw was you, Murph," Connor said.

They walked the rest of the way without speaking aloud. Connor's hand on Murphy's neck, Murphy's hand tucked into Connor's waistband, said everything else.

* * *

"You ready for it, lads?" Andy asked.

Connor and Murphy nodded from the rear seats of the car. They were providing support during the kidnapping of a UDR major near Dungannon.

The major had obligingly moved to a remote farm house a mile away from his closest neighbors. Less obligingly, he had a habit of collecting shotguns. Sooner or later, however, the man had to sleep.

After the major was captured, he'd be traded for political prisoners. It was an old game. The British government would refuse to deal with them, the IRA would let the major go, and a month later the prisoners would "miraculously" escape.

For the hundredth time, Murphy ran over the facts in his mind.

Two four man teams were assigned to the kidnapping. The first four man team was responsible for capturing the major. He, Connor, Andy, and Dinger made up the second four man team. They were providing security for the back of the farmhouse while the first team extracted the major through the front.

Another team would transport the major, but he and Connor knew nothing about them: how many there were, what vehicle they would be driving, where the major would be taken.

They were twelve miles from the border. If things went to hell, they'd be crossing it near Monaghan. The area was over-run with tourists, mostly fishermen, providing plenty of distraction for the Gardai, the Irish police.

Near the border, a four-door Saab was waiting for them just in case they needed cover, pike on ice and fishing equipment in the boot, plus angler's clothing and kits. It would be fucking pathetic if they ended up in prison because they didn't have the right fishing license. But Murphy was certain Andy or Dinger had taken care of that detail.

* * *

Because there was no place to conceal their vehicle, they would approach the farmhouse on foot. More accurately, on their bellies.

They had drilled for such an operation, snaking across the ground, weighed down with gear, so Murphy was prepared for the burn in his shoulders, neck, and thighs. It would take hours to cover the half mile to the farmhouse. They started at one in the morning. Once an hour, Andy called for a rest. He and Dinger obviously didn't need it; they looked like they could do this all day and night.

They did not have instructions to kill the major if things went awry. There was no need. They were masked, he was alone in his farmhouse, and the border was close. The greatest danger was that the major might take a shot at them, or that underground Protestant paramilitaries could be hanging about.

Thanks to the INLA, the socialist extremists who had broken off from the Provos, all UDR officers were on full alert. The INLA's new hobby was assassinating them. Their method was simple. They would go up to a door and knock. If an officer answered, bang. Only weeks earlier, they had shot a major dead in front of his five-year-old daughter.

After nearly three hours of dragging themselves along, Andy and Dinger halted their wriggling across the long, damp grass and conferred. Murphy couldn't hear anything they said to each other, so he lay on his back next to Connor and wished for a cigarette.

Andy had given him a handful of hard candies to suck instead, saying they'd keep his mouth from drying out. In the darkness, Murphy hadn't seen their color. He was now realizing Andy had foisted all the shite-tasting green ones off on him.

Andy signaled to them to bring their heads close. He and Connor pressed their heads together until their ears nearly touched, then Andy whispered into them.

"There's marks on the grass that show someone came this way, just as we have, crawling. As near as I can tell, they veered off in more than one direction. There are at least three of them, probably more."

Murphy waited. The information was not encouraging, but he wasn't expecting it to slow Andy down any.

"It means we're expected."

Murphy fought panic. Andy was saying someone had grassed. The major and the mysterious others knew they were crawling around the field right this minute. They were not yet within range of the farmhouse, but that wouldn't matter if there were men ahead of them, lying in wait.

Dinger shoved his face close to take part in the discussion. "We can dig ourselves in, or retreat."

Either way, they wouldn't be capable of supporting the first team.

Their opponents had one huge advantage over them; they owned the airwaves, what Andy called the net. All SAS agents, he had informed them, wore tiny radios in their ears and mikes on their throats. They could talk to any member of their team at any time.   
They had no such luxury, although they were outfitted with the latest equipment: night vision goggles, body armour, and Berettas with silencers.

Connor spoke forcefully. "We have to let the first team know."

They had flares for signaling, and of course they could fire a weapon. But either would bring them under fire, and they were exposed in the open field.

Andy agreed. "There's dead ground behind us. We'll dig in and fire off a flare."

They moved double-time, reversing down their worm-like tracks to the shallow dip in the ground. Andy ordered them to spread out eight feet apart. Connor and Murphy were in the middle, with Andy and Dinger flanking them and slightly ahead.

Murphy blessed Andy's thoroughness: they each had a small trenching tool. The earth was soft and easy to dig out. Within thirty minutes of spotting the tracks, they were ready.

Andy set up the flare seventy feet away from their position, just in case, with a lengthy fuse that should give him time to get back.

Murphy found he was holding his breath.

Andy was nearly back when the flare went off, a blue one that signaled enemy soldiers in the vicinity.

There was quiet for a few seconds, then they heard a deafening sound. Automatic weapons were firing in the direction of the flare, then raking the field around it. From the way the dirt was flying up into the air, Murphy guessed it was a machine gun, and his ears told him the shooters were in the farmhouse itself.

They couldn't see the farmhouse; that was the disadvantage of dead ground. Out of the line of fire, they were also out of the line of sight, and they could not return fire.

Andy crawled toward him, and Connor joined them.

"It's the fucken Regiment," Andy said.

Murphy had already guessed it was the SAS, as the UDR and the paramilitaries did not typically use machine guns, but he hated leaving the safety of the dead ground. He wanted to lie on top of Connor until the firing stopped. But he followed Andy, Connor behind him, Dinger in the rear.

They had to move. During their training, Andy had told them the SAS fought aggressively. Their motto was to bring the fight to the enemy; they would not stay put in the farmhouse.

It took Murphy a moment to realize they were not heading back toward their car. It made sense. If there had been a leak, there could be someone waiting for them there. But where the fuck was there to go? Andy was striking out over the field. Murphy couldn't remember if there was a road in this direction. Eventually, there should be at least a dirt track for farm vehicles.

Were they going to go cross country all the way to the border? Maybe. Andy had made them cover twenty miles at a go, complaining they should be doing at least forty.

After they had been moving for half an hour, Andy gestured they could get up on their hands and knees and crawl. They made good time, and it was a relief to change position.

The firing had continued sporadically. They could hear no return fire, and that was good. It meant the first team had not been pinned down, and had probably retreated successfully. But maybe not. They could see blue lights flashing from police cars on the roads near the farmhouse. There would be helicopters, and possibly dog teams, any minute.

It was only their second op, and once again there had been a cock-up.

Murphy nearly pissed himself when Connor grabbed his ankle. He halted to let Connor catch up with him.

"Dinger's not behind me anymore," Connor whispered.

Andy reversed, crawling like a crab toward them, and pointed at the sky, which was turning grey. The sun would be up in less than an hour.

When Connor said Dinger was gone, Andy explained hurriedly. "He's gone for the car; he has to move it, or they'll know we're here. He's got a better chance alone."

"Where the fuck are we going?" Murphy whispered.

Andy grinned. "There's another car, idiot."

Murphy was relieved, then nearly shrieked in shock as an ambulance and a police van came screaming out of nowhere. The vehicles seemed right on top of them, then Murphy realized they were at least a hundred feet away, probably on the road they were crawling to. The blue lights on top of the vehicles flashed hypnotically.

Murphy turned toward Connor. Standing over Connor were two blue men, appearing and disappearing, lit up by the lights of the emergency vehicles. Their faces were monstrous, without nose, eyes, or mouth, and their guns were aimed at Connor's face.

Before Murphy could move, Andy was standing. His right foot shot out and kicked the gun hand of one man. At the same time, Andy fired at the other man left-handed, then at the man he had disarmed. It took about three seconds.

Finished with killing, Andy sat down gracelessly on his arse.

Murphy crawled over to Connor and felt him frantically. When Andy had kicked the gun out of the man's hand, it had gone off.

"I'm all right," Connor said.

Andy crawled over to the dead men and pulled the stockings off their heads to study their faces, then gestured to Connor and Murphy to follow him. They crawled faster than they thought possible.

* * *

Murphy was exhausted by the time they reached the old Capri. Frequent surges of adrenaline had left him light-headed. Andy seemed to sense it, for he put Connor in the front with him, and told Murphy to lie down in the back.

They had been traveling twenty minutes when Andy pulled off the road. The sun was just coming up. The light was going to make it almost impossible for the men trying to cross the border.

"Dump everything," Andy said. "Hurry."

They stripped off all of their gear, including their weapons. Last to go were their rubber gloves. Andy opened the boot and tossed jeans, T-shirts, pullovers, and sneakers to them. The man was fucking thorough.

Andy humped everything into a small copse, then got behind the wheel and told Murphy to get in the front seat with him, giving Connor a chance to rest.

Murphy must be more tired than he thought, for he could swear they weren't going south, but east, toward the rising sun.

When Murphy saw the vast expanse of Lough Neagh, he was sure of it, but he said nothing. Andy was executing a backup plan, and it apparently meant heading to Belfast instead of to the border. But what had happened to everyone else?

For the first time, he thought of the ambulance and police van, and realized what it meant. A Provo had been shot, perhaps killed. Perhaps more than one. He thought of Dinger and sweated.

* * *

On the eastern shore of Lough Neagh, Andy drove off the road into a rubbish-strewn field that had probably held a colony of Travellers' caravans recently.

Andy got out of the car and looked around, then they climbed out and joined him. Andy passed around a packet of cigarettes. For a few minutes, they stood and smoked, exhaustion making Murphy's mind blank.

"Dinger," Murphy said.

"He's all right," Andy said.

"What are ya, fucken psychic?" Connor said.

"Shut up and listen," Andy said. "You've got two choices. You can take the car and head for the border. The Gardai are waiting there right now, and the UDR is sweeping everyone right into their arms."

Connor paced in a short arc. "What are you sayin'? How do you know…"

"If you don't want seven years for being a Provo, go to the Belfast Cathedral. On the north side there's a statue of a saint, with a bird's nest on her head."

"A crown of thorns, ya mean," Murphy said. He was vaguely aware he had picked out the least important detail in Andy's string of words, but he was too muzzy-headed to care.

"Yeah, that's the one. Behind her is a drop. You'll find a bag with money in it. Not much, but enough, five thousand pounds. There's a man on Ballymurphy who can get you passports and plane tickets. He'll want two thousand, one thousand from each of you." Andy told them the street number. "Go to Boston in America. The Provos there will get you jobs and a place to live."

"Andy, what the _fuck_," Connor said.

"Your Da was never in the IRA. Most everyone thought he was, because he worked for 'em, but he never joined."

"Why'd you tell us he was?" Murphy said. Once again, he was going off on a stupid tangent, but he couldn't help himself.

"I thought he was, then. I couldn't learn much about your Da—there was only so much digging I could do before the slime noticed. I did learn a few things. The Provos wanted to knock your Da off. He disappeared before they could."

The cobwebs in Murphy's mind disappeared. _The slime_ was what the SAS called their intelligence division. No one else called it that.

_He left us because he had a fucken good reason to._ When the IRA knocked someone off, they weren't too particular if family members got in the way.

"Turns out the Provos were scared fucken shitless of ya, because of your Da." Andy smiled grimly. "Your Da was a one-man death squad, killing Provos who crossed the line. I don't know if he was carrying out orders from the IRA, or nobody. Those quartermasters thought he was out in the fucking bushes! That's why they couldn't wait to buy my guns."

"You're in the Regiment." Connor exhaled until he was empty.

"Yeah," Andy said. His next words would have struck Murphy as funny, if Murphy wasn't fucking losing it.

"It keeps me out of trouble," Andy said with complete sincerity.

Murphy was reeling. The scale of the betrayal was making him sick to his stomach. He stared at Andy with loathing in his eyes.

"What about our cousins?" Murphy croaked. He pictured the SAS, guns drawn, on the dairy farm.

"They're in the dark, and they'll fucken stay there. I met Rachel's brothers at a piss-up. They're Scots, I'm a Scot, we all got along. I was looking for a weapons dump site and they came up with a solution."

"Did you set those IRA men up? The eight killed in Loughgall?" Connor was so furious he was spitting.

Andy spit back. "What if I told you those men were about to leave the IRA, hook up with the INLA? What fucken conclusion would you leap to then?"

Andy suddenly and completely lost his superhuman temper.

"I didn't volunteer for Northern Ireland! I didn't want you at the dairy farm! Since I couldn't get rid of you, I kept you under my nose. I heard the Provos were going to use you to make your Da come out of hiding." Andy caught up on his breathing, then returned to bellowing. "I did my best to break you. And I fucken did break you. Gary kept you on because he wants to find your Da."

Murphy heard only every other word. Their duty was clear. He and Connor had to kill or capture Andy, or die trying. But…

_He's a good man._ Connor's words echoed loudly in his head.

Andy had risked his life for them, more than once. He had killed two men, Protestant paramilitaries, to save Connor.

Murphy's heart told him it was Andy who was telling the truth, and Gary who had been lying.

"Fuck it. Take the car and go where you want," Andy said. His composure was back, or perhaps he was too exhausted to care anymore. He turned his back on them and looked out over the lake.

Murphy turned to look at Connor. The choice was freedom or prison. Andy alive or dead.

"Your weapons dump," Connor said. He was brisk, as if he understood they were running out of time.

"The weapons were jarked. I used a new kind of transmitter the IRA hasn't picked up on yet. It was fucken beautiful. The Regiment would put the old transmitters on IRA guns, the Provos would destroy the guns, and I'd sell them mine. There's no more time for questions."

"Why are you helping us get away?" Murphy asked, ignoring Andy's warning.

"You saw me shoot those men. If you get picked up, you'll talk, and I'll be court-martialed. I could get a life sentence, even." Andy took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Should have kept my NGVs on," he added. "If that fucken ambulance hadn't come along…"

"It was self-defense," Connor said. "No one would convict ya on it. You shot them because you'd already made up your mind to help us get away. Hadn't you?"

"The slime has photos of you, files on you," Andy said, evading the question. "They could send it all to the FBI in America. They usually do. I'll see what I can do about it, or else you'll get deported." Andy got loud again. "I'm not a fucken miracle worker. After you get to the states, keep your heads down."

"Why Boston?" Connor asked.

"It's the last known whereabouts of your Da," Andy said. "Besides, it's where all Irish lads go when they leave the mother country. You won't stand out."

"What about university?" Murphy asked.

"Fuck. Don't. The FBI profiles foreign students now. You can thank the Iranian revolution for that. When I say keep your heads down, I mean get a job where you get paid under the table. Don't open a bank account. Don't let a flat."

"How can we go to the Provos for help after tonight? They're going to think we were in on it with you." Murphy was flapping for real.

Andy laughed. When they had accepted the second choice, most of the tension had gone out of him. "As far as the IRA will know, you gave those two men the good news, then had the sense to leave the country. By the time they find out the weapons I sold 'em were jarked, the guns will be all over the place, and they won't know when it was done. I sold them plenty that weren't, just to be a bastard."

Andy lowered himself slowly until he was sitting on the ground. "I'll be just another Provo who got cold feet and vanished. My two years here are up, and I'm going home. Now I'm calling a heli. I'll give you a head start. Don't worry about snipers on the heli. They'll be in a hurry to get me out of here."

"Why?" Murphy said.

"Because I'm wounded."

The stray bullet had cut a deep groove out of Andy's right thigh. His trouser leg was soaked with blood, nearly invisible because of the dark denim and the dim light. Murphy pulled off his T-shirt and they bound it around Andy's leg.

"Remember," Andy said. "Belfast Cathedral. Ballymurphy. Boston."

"We have to see our Ma first," Connor said.

Murphy's throat closed up. _Jesus Christ. Ma!_

"You can't. I'll get a message to Ryan; he'll tell her what's happened. What I tell him of it, anyway." Andy's eyes closed and he opened them again with an effort.

Connor tugged on Murphy's arm. "We have to go. He needs to get to a hospital."

"Murph. You've lost another shirt." Andy grinned sleepily.

Murphy couldn't speak. His eyes were burning. They were leaving Andy alive, but it was as if he were dying. He was a good man, and they would never see him again.

* * *

"I'll pay you ten bucks an hour. Off the books, so no taxes get taken out. What do you say?"

"Will you give us forty hours a week?" Connor asked.

"Twenty to start, then we'll see. You can stay here until you find a place. There's an office I don't use."

They followed their new boss, James Francis Donlan, across the large warehouse and up a flight of stairs. The empty office at the top was twenty by twenty feet. There was an adjoining bathroom with a toilet and sink only. Could be worse.

"You can get furniture easy. People are always throwing stuff away when they move," Donlan said.

They went back down the stairs and were encouraged to admire the fleet of trucks, which were white with a huge kelly-green four-leaf clover painted on each side. The finishing touch was _The Emerald Isle Moving Co._ in a flowing Celtic script.

"That's fucken subtle," Connor said. Murphy chomped down on his thumb to keep from laughing.

"Yeah," Donlan said with pride. "I only hire Irishmen fresh off the boat. People pay extra for white guys, think they won't steal their shit."

"Is that so?" Connor said. "After two weeks, we'll be getting twelve dollars an hour, forty hours a week, then?"

Donlan breathed for a bit. "Sure, why not. I'm always glad to help a fellow Irishman. Besides, you came highly recommended." His smile faltered, then recovered. "We've got a lot of jobs today."

The work was hard, but not grueling. Their time in the IRA had left them fitter than they had ever been in their lives.

There were four trucks, each with a four-man crew. Donlan drove one of the trucks and worked as hard as any of them.

At the end of the day, Donlan invited them home for dinner, and let them use his shower, one of three. It was their first look at an American home; they couldn't believe how many fucking bathrooms there were. After the bland but filling meal, which was cooked and served by Mrs. Donlan, they went out for a "night on the town."

Murphy was afraid Donlan would take them to a fancy club, but he drove them to a bar in the warehouse district. It was comfortingly ordinary, full of men who worked in the area.

"I got a special treat for ya later," Donlan said. "I know how you Irish lads are. Can't wait to break loose." He winked obscenely.

Murphy hoped the bastard wasn't taking them to a whorehouse.

After they had a few unnecessarily cold beers, they piled into the car again. Their destination, a one story brick building, had painted-over windows and no sign. Donlan rang a doorbell, a buzzer sounded, and they stepped inside.

"Hallelujah," Connor whispered.

At long last, they were in a porn store.

"Get whatever you want." Donlan waved his arms expansively. "No, I take that back. You have a fifty dollar limit. I might go over if you talk me into it."

Connor headed to the videos; Murphy hurried to the racks of magazines and books.

With fifty dollars to spend, Murphy pictured them leaving with a wheelbarrow of goods. He picked up a magazine and swore. It was ten bucks.

They still had money left from Andy's stash, but Connor said they had to save it. Murphy hadn't argued; he knew Connor was still dreaming of going to university.

He waited until Donlan and Connor were on the other side of the large room, then frantically searched for one thing.

"_Chicks with Dicks_?" Donlan asked. For a fat man, he moved quietly.

Murphy hid the magazine behind his back.

"Oh, I get it!" Donlan said. "You don't want _him_ to know. No problem. Let me see that."

Murphy handed it over; he was doomed anyway.

"This ain't the real thing—it's a bunch of tarted-up transvestites!" Donlan was outraged. "Look, you can see his fucken five o'clock shadow!" He placed it back on the shelf and rooted through the section labeled _Freaks_. "Here ya go."

Murphy opened the magazine to the center pages and closed it again immediately. He couldn't look at the photos here. He had noted the blond hair and that had been all he could take.

He handed the magazine back to Donlan. "Would ya…"

"Yeah, I'll pretend it's for me. Jeezus! You Irish lads never cease to fucken amaze me." Donlan cackled and picked up a magazine featuring horses on the cover.

* * *

They hammered two nails in the wall for their rosaries, then readied themselves for sleep on their new bed, a fat slice of packing foam.

"Tell me when you knew," Murphy said.

Connor spoke like someone telling a child an oft-repeated tale. "When we were thirteen, you got on my bed in the middle of the night. It was before we had the rosaries."

"Before?" Murphy said, his eyes opening. It was a new addition to the story.

"Aye. You lay down with your back to me, so I started rubbing your back, and then you said, 'More, Connor.' That's when I knew."

"Then what?" Murphy asked. Connor always teased him by stopping before the best part.

"Then I wanked while I was rubbing your back."

Murphy smiled, remembering all the one-handed backrubs. "Fucken pervert."

"You kept saying _More, Connor_ the whole time. Drove me crazy. It was as if you knew as well."

Murphy rolled onto his side.

Connor laughed, then began to rub his back. "Right after I came, you fell asleep. I put my arms around you, and we slept that way all night."

"And that's when you stopped going to confession," Murphy said.

"Yeah," Connor said. "I haven't gone since." He stopped rubbing Murphy's back. Murphy rolled over to face him, and Connor wrapped his arms around him, pressing his face against Murphy's neck.

Murphy's eyes closed; the story was finished. But Connor had another addition tonight.

"That was the first time I knew," Connor whispered, "that you are the pulse of my heart."

He pulled Murphy's hand to his chest and pressed it down until Murphy felt the steady thump under his palm.

Murphy's eyes overflowed with tears. "God damn you, Connor."

He rubbed his wet face on Connor's hair. Connor had found the right words, the words he wished he had found. Yet it was right Connor had said them first.

"Aye," Connor said. "He will."

It was what Murphy most wished for, and Connor was telling him it was so: they were one person. The moment Connor's heart ceased beating, so would his own.

* * *

Sleep had overtaken Murphy, so he grumbled when Connor shook him.

"Up, Murph. Didn't say our prayers."

Murph dragged himself off the foam and knelt on the floor next to Connor. They looked at their rosaries while they spoke in swift harmony.

_And shepherds we will be  
for Thee, my Lord, for Thee.  
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand.  
That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.  
We will flow a river forth unto Thee,  
and teeming with souls shall it ever be._

_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._

They crossed themselves as they climbed back onto the bed of foam. Connor pressed close, his wet mouth on Murphy's shoulder, his arm heavy across Murphy's chest.

When he heard Connor breathing evenly in sleep, Murphy whispered as always his private petition.

_Lord, make me good. But not yet._

* * *

The End of _Already Crazy_, a Boondock Saints series by Stewardess.


End file.
